Justin wondered if he'd made the right move by not bringing Bruno. They had decided that it would be better if Bruno took Justin's car back to East End Harbor. Justin did not expect this session to take long. And he'd been afraid that Bruno's involvement wouldn't be good or productive for anyone concerned. For all he knew, the FBI would be waiting inside the house, and that would not be a meeting Bruno would relish. But now he wished he had some company. Some large and intimidating company.
"All right, let's go," he told Harmon.
"I want to put my shoe on," H. R. Harmon said.
"It'll hurt a hell of a lot worse if you do that," Justin said.
"I'm not going into Lincoln's house looking like this. I have to put my shoe on."
Justin shrugged and watched as the old man grimaced and groaned but got his shoe on. He even tied it. But not too tight. And Justin was impressed: H. R. barely limped on the short walk from the car to the town house. Justin decided the old guy wasn't much on honesty or decency but he was hell when it came to dignity.
They were met at the front door by Lincoln Berdon.
He was wearing a black, three-piece pin-striped suit, and the expression on his face was as somber as his funereal-looking attire. He ushered the two men into his living room. The house was decorated all in black, white, and silver. The tables were stainless steel. The floors were painted black and white. Couches and chairs were either white with black pillows or black with white pillows. Justin wondered if they had black and white wine. But he didn't get a chance to find out since Berdon didn't offer him a drink.
"What is this about?" Lincoln Berdon asked.
"Do you want to know who I am?" Justin asked.
"No," Berdon said. "I know who you are. What I want to know is what you're doing here."
So Justin told him. He went through the events of the recent past step by step, beginning with the discovery of Evan Harmon's body. He left nothing out. He told them both what he knew about Ronald LaSalle's murder-and LaSalle's recent business history. He told them everything he knew about Evan Harmon's corrupt financial dealings, all the way through the overturned truck in Texas. At one point, Justin said, "I know that Evan arranged to buy platinum as low as he could and sell it at a huge profit to the Chinese government. That couldn't have made you happy-him cheating your most important client." Berdon didn't respond; he was well trained. Neither of the two Wall Street legends looked shocked at anything Justin had revealed up to that point. Harmon was following Berdon's lead, which surprised Justin a little. He'd expected their relationship to be on a more equal footing. This was Berdon's show. Berdon's world. H. R. Harmon was a supporting player.
Justin then talked about Wanda: what she'd told him when they'd met in her car, what he knew about her death. When he told them about the words she'd managed to scrawl before she died, Lincoln Berdon didn't so much as blink. But this time Harmon looked startled. He glanced quickly at Berdon, who didn't return the look. Berdon's eyes never moved; they stared straight ahead at Justin.
"What else do you have to tell us?" Berdon asked. Justin felt as if he should compliment the man on having perfected his dismissive tone. But he thought he should hold off just a bit on any congratulations.
"I have a few other things," Justin said. He told them about the break-in and murder at the LaSalle Group and how they knew that the murderer was a Chinese woman. Harmon also seemed to blanch at that news. Then Justin told them about the Chinese man who came to his house. And he went through exactly what had happened. He spared no details.
He then said, "We know the man's identity now. The FBI ran his fingerprints, and we're aware of his connection to the Chinese embassy. We also know his place of employment. I guess I should put that in the past tense. We know where he used to work. It's hard to hold a job when your whole face has been melted away." The two men were silent. Justin said, "Don't you want to know where he worked?"
"Where?" H. R. asked.
"Rockworth and Williams," Justin said. "His name was Togo Lu. And he had a job in Rockworth's security division." Justin turned to H. R. Harmon. "You speak Chinese, don't you, Senator?"
"No," the ex-ambassador to China said. "It was way too complicated a language for me. Never learned more than four or five words." Harmon was turning paler by the moment. He turned to his longtime business associate. Then back to Justin. "But Mr. Berdon speaks excellent Chinese." He turned to look right into Berdon's eyes and said slowly, in a hoarse, raw voice, "How many dialects, Lincoln?"
Lincoln Berdon ignored H. R. Harmon as if he weren't in the room, as if he didn't exist. He spoke directly to Justin. "So far, all you've done is entertain us with stories. I still don't know why you're here. What is it you're looking for?"
"Something simple-the truth."
Berdon snorted. "What truth exactly? Which one?"
"That's the thing about truth," Justin said. "I find there usually tends to be only one."
"That's where you're wrong," Lincoln Berdon said. "If there's anything I've learned from being around Wall Street all these years it's that there isn't any truth, there's only perception. It's what people think is true that drives the world."
"Then maybe," Justin said, "you should hear what I think is true."
"I'd like to hear it," H. R. Harmon said.
Justin looked at H. R. and said, "I think that you raised a very devious son. So devious, he couldn't tell the difference between his friends and his enemies. So he cheated them both. And they both decided to do something about it. Only his friends got there first." Now he turned to Lincoln Berdon. "And they killed him. And then they killed Ron LaSalle. And Wanda Chinkle."
"And why would his friends do that?" H. R. asked.
"Because they wanted what Evan had taken from them. What he'd bought for himself. They wanted the platinum he owned. And the companies he'd bought to transform that platinum into something everyone needed."
Lincoln Berdon smiled. "You're a very interesting man, Mr. Westwood. Quite surprising. But you don't have any proof and you will never find any proof to back up what you're saying. And the reason is because it's not true. In this case, perception does not equal reality."
"You have a computer in this house?" Justin asked.
"Of course."
"You mind if I use it for a minute? I'd like to show you something."
Berdon hesitated. But he couldn't resist. His curiosity got the better of him. He led both men into another room. A desktop computer sat on a large, antique, dark wood desk. Justin went to the computer, connected to the Internet, and found his way onto a Web site.
"This is Larry Silverbush's Web site," Justin said. "I believe you both know him. He's a Long Island DA, and he's running for attorney general." When neither man said anything, Justin went on. "Mind if I show you something in particular? It's a listing for one of Silverbush's recent fund-raisers. It was at a private apartment. At seven forty Park Avenue. Does that address mean anything to you, Mr. Berdon?"
"I have an apartment at that address."
"Not really such a coincidence. The fund-raiser was in your apartment."
"There is nothing illegal or out of line about raising money for a politician."
"No, there isn't. But I'm pretty sure if I keep digging, I'm going to find a few things that are illegal and out of line. You want me to tell you why? Because this isn't what I think, this is what I know. Silverbush was one of the first people who was told that Evan Harmon was murdered. Leona Krill called him right after I woke her up in the middle of the night to tell her. We've just seen the phone records, Lincoln, and they show that Silverbush called you immediately after he heard about Evan. I knew he had to have told somebody and you were the logical choice. You were his big backer. You were his ticket to eventually get him to the governor's mansion. So he'd want to curry favor with you. He knew about your relationships with H. R. and with Evan. He knew you'd want to know what had happened. What he didn't know was what you were going to do with that information. At least I hope he didn't."